I want to gather grapes among the thorns—
A fool, I know; I know I am a fool.
And yet, as surely as a mother mourns
Her children’s deaths, though death is but a tool,
I want to gather figs in tangled vines.
I think I hear the workers start to sing;
I think I hear them singing sacred lines
From something that I wrote. I want to bring
The grapes, the figs, the children, and the song—
A foolish gift to leave before the tomb.
I want to claim my right to do what’s wrong,
But find my world’s contracted to this room,
This room where all I do is read and write;
I’ve locked myself inside, now comes the night.